Predict the Death of the Previous Poster

Miscellaneous and Personal Stuff I Must Share
61

Pardon me if this death is too creepy. I just had a flash of inspiration.

Angel Heart, I’m sorry to have to tell you this.

On Sunday, you will go to a garage sale by your bestest friend Mr Greene. Seeing as you need a new alarm clock, you scavenge around, desperately attempting to find one. (Your old one broke, after all. And you have a business trip planned for the following monday. You need an alarm clock. Your job depends on it.)

Unfortunately, you find nothing. After searching all day, drinking from your bottle of water that you brought, you suddenly have the urge to use the lavatory. You ask, and Mr Greene obliges.

After washing up, you walk back into the garage to pick up your things, when you see a small Sony Dream Machine alarm clock in a cardboard box, with a small tag on it marked “50c.”

You take it and talk to Mr Greene, who looks puzzled. “I don’t remember this being anywhere! Oh well. Perhaps it belonged to Ms Greene. Go ahead and take it. No charge!”

Just then, clouds begin to roll in, covering the sunny day. Little did you know, as you drove off, that it was to be an ominous omen.

You take the mysterious clock home with you and plug it in. The numbers shoot to life, showing the customary blinking “12:00.” You proceed to set the time to the correct time and set the alarm to the time of 5 AM, when you need to get up. You turn on the small radio inside to your favorite easy listening station that you always fall asleep to.

But somehow, it doesn’t sound like it usually does. Not like usual interference, no. This is somehow different. The music sounds disjointed, as if it was a copy of a copy of a copy of the original. Every so often, Michael Bolton hits a flat note. The songs slightly speed up and slow down. The whole effect is very spooky.

“What am I thinking!” you think aloud. “Alarm clocks cannot be haunted!” You force yourself to sleep, drifting off into the sweet, sweet slumber without a care, going over what you were to do the following day.

At the time immediately before you fall into dreams, you hear vague whispers, in a language you’ve never heard, on the radio waves, but think nothing of it.

The alarm clock wakes you up when it is still dark out. It displays the time of 5 AM. Just right! You bounce out of bed and turn the alarm off. Not a minute goes by before you step into the shower, getting all squeaky clean for the big day.

After getting dressed, you put on your clothes and head out the door.

Interestingly enough, the minute you put the keys into the car door, a man runs up to you, yelling there in stinky sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He had obviously come back from a run, and was extremely angry at you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Nothing, man. Just going on a business trip. Nothing more.”

He replies, obviously irate. “Not in my car, you aren’t!”

“But this is my car. I’ve had this car for years.”

The conversation is getting heated. “Sorry to say, but I own this car, so you’d better get out of here quickly.”

You reply, thinking yourself quick-witted. “Then why is it parked in front of my house?”

The man looks very angry. “What? Are you stoned?!? This is my house! All the mail is addressed to me! Look!” He heads over to the mailbox and pulls the contents. “Here’s a phone bill. My magazine. And a birthday letter from my mother! All addressed to one Samuel Goldwater. At this address!”

“What are you talking about, Mr Goldwater?” You pull out your wallet and remove your driver’s license, immediately showing it to him. “See? My face! My name! My address!” Confidently, you shove the plastic card in the man’s face.

He looks calm. “Except for one important fact. Those are my name and my face. In fact, that looks like my card.”

In horror, you turn the card around and read. “Oh my God! It’s…it’s your face! And Samuel Goldwater! Oh my! There must be some terrible mistake!” you plead.

“I’m sorry, but the only mistake here is you. Now get off of my property before I call the cops. And give me my card back!”

You walk away, in a daze, not knowing what to do. Many other things happened that day, all of them very frightening. It is like you never existed anywhere. Your plane ticket is in another name, on a flight that never took off. Your company parking space is reserved for someone else. Your social security number is for someone in Pittsburgh. You call your parents, but they don’t recognize you. The only mark you ever made on the world was…

…the alarm clock! Of course! If you could destroy the alarm clock, you would be free! And back to you again!

You rush back to Samuel Goldwater’s house and bang on the door, demanding entrance. A groggy Sam answers the door.

“You again! I thought I told you to…”

“Listen to me! Is there an alarm clock in your house that doesn’t belong?”

He’s still awakening, apparently. “Wha?”

“I don’t have time for games. Is there an alarm clock that doesn’t belong?”

“I’m sorry, but I gave it to my niece. She’s going off to college and she needs a clock badly.”

And so the sad, sad story continues, the only evidence of these lost souls is the slight whisper on the radio waves. And so next time, when you listen to the radio, you just might pick up something unsusal. It’s the sound of whispers of the damned, and of the eternal emprisonment of those who took the cursed alarm clock. Those whispers are the faint screams of Angel Heart drifting on the wind.

:eek:

62

:eek:

Soup_du_jour, that was an astoundingly creepy piece! WONDERFUL! It reminded me of one of my favorite 2Nu “songs”, Her Name.

63

On May 5, 2006, the long-anticipated rapture will finally transpire. However, while thousands of righteous ascend to Heaven, peritrochoid is mowed down by one of the suddenly-driverless automobiles careering down the highway at 60+ mph.

64

Sternvogel, your demise is imminent. In exactly 3 hours and 26 minutes, while waiting for a page to load from an excruciatingly slow Web server, you will reach behind your computer to make sure the ethernet cable is properly seated, spilling the glass of Vanilla Coke before you inside the computer’s case and electrocuting yourself in the process.

65

The Lesser Elvis decided, on July 16, 20–, to see how much money he could swindle from people by claiming he was the Greater Elvis. One of his early targets was the Bowery Bank, which he took for almost $250,000.

After 6 years of this scheming, however, he was ultimately found out, when he did the mistake of borrowing more money from one of the banks he had defaulted a loan on earlier- the Bowery Bank.

No one knew this for 16 years, however, as he seemed to have just diappeared.

On September 17, 20–, however, a crew tearing down the old Milwaukee offices of the Bowery Bank found his body. He appeared to have starved to death after being locked into a vault.

Rene Pastatucchi, CEO of th Bowery Bank, received a 5 to 10 year prison sentence for his involvement.

66

In a freak swimming accident, Governor Quinn is found floating face down in his pool, dressed only in a Sponge Bob Square Pants thong…

67

Dolores Claiborne gets a little too wrapped up in holiday decorating this year. While trimming the house National Lampoon style she notices a bulb missing from a string of lights. She goes on the roof to replace it and when all of a sudden big gust of wind comes, blowing her onto Donder and Blitzen in the front yard, killing her instantly.

68

Krys92gp became the first victim in what was to become know as the Attack of the Memonites. They went on to raze Pittsburgh and most of Weschester County NY. Look for it on anews station near you, Summer 2004.

69

WhiteyFoo Died peacefully, of natural causes.
Insofar as falling pianos can be described as natural, or peaceful, that is.

70

Mangetout suffers a tragic fit of temporary insanity and actually gives an honest answer to the question: “Does this dress make my butt look big?”

71

Spiff decides to spiff up, but for some unknown reason his mind snaps and he goes overboard and scrubs himself to death.

72

Spiff’s remains may be viewed on Sunday, May 32nd, 2004, at 11:30 am to 1 pm at O’Malley’s Irish Pub and Grill. Spiff met his timely demise when he mouthed off one too many times to the wrong alien with the 7 rows of teeth and 15 razor edged tentacles. There will be two pails at the viewing, one marked “Head” and the other marked “Everything else, we hope”.

73

Ponder Stibbons begins pondering over the meaning of his user name one sunny morning. Lying in bed, the hamsters in his brain try to work through this oh, so delicious mystery but honestly, hamsters aren’t equipped with enough power to riddle through a wet paper sack, as we all know, and so they work faster and faster, harder and harder until one by one they die! Exploding like quick, little flashes of white light and a headache-like pain until Ponder Stibbons has to go to the store to fetch some extra strength aspirin to ease the hurt. FLASH FLASH FLASH!

As he turns the key to start his vehicle, he is startled by the death of the very LAST of the hamsters in his head FLASH!, sitting perplexed in his car and holding his head. He sits… he holds. He sits all day long and holds his head, forgetting his destination, forgetting his headache, forgetting to eat… forgetting to breathe! Quietly, he falls over in the front seat of his car… alone, hamsterless and finally at peace. Sorry man!

74

Ponder Stibbons and Horseflesh will die on the same day at the same time. Next Saturday at 4:54 pm.
Ponder rolls out of bed on Saturday and while trying to get to the bathroom to release the huge quantity of used beer that was consumed the night before, stubs his toe on the way to the loo.

After much screaming of profanity the conclusion that the toe is broken is finally reached and PS goes to the emergency room.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, Horseflesh is consuming his breakfast of 12 eggs, a side of bacon, a pound of sausage and a small stack of flapjacks, (darn diet) when Horseflesh develops a sever tummy ache. With a huge amount of pain in the side and a rising temperature Horseflesh heads to the emergency room where an appendectomy is soon to follow.

However both of them babble to the staff about the oh so cool SDMB and one thing leads to another and instead of going off to radiology for an x-ray Ponder Stibbens is prepped for surgery and Horseflesh is wheeled down to have his toe blasted with radiation.

However Ponder doesn’t have an appendix, (Ponder being written by a lazy researcher) but the doctor really wants to remove ‘something’ removes Ponders heart.

Horseflesh, laying on the table in extreme pain looks up at the massive circa 1950’s x-ray machine that is slowly moving over the table he is on and comes to two realizations. One being that this is not an operating table. The other is that the bolts holding the massive machine are loose. However in his weaken state he realized both of them too late and just as his appendix burst the machine came crashing down on his head.
(Ponder was later charged by his HMO because he didn’t get the heart removal pre-approved by his PCP)
PS Zebra is a man so you can use the male pronouns)

75

“it’s how he would have wanted it” is what they all said at Zebra’s funeral, but most of them later admitted that he never even liked elephants, and certainly (briefly)complained about being trampled to death by them

76

Mangetout’s mistress
catching him in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut him up into little pieces
and threw away every piece but one.

[With thanks to Roger McGough]

77

Bahaha! I’m loving it. You guys are so funny. You made my whole week.

78

A double feature today: jjimm and BellaDellaItalia, both of the Straight Dope Message Board, suffered fatal injuries from a horrible sausage incident. Unfortunately, not all the sausages were able to be extricated so some remain sticking out of various orifices at odd, inhuman angles. Please refrain from helping yourself to the bangers; there will be plenty of food at the wake. No dogs allowed.

79

I should warn you, BellaDellaItalia, not to go to the Daisy Hill Turkey Farm November 26, but I know it will do me no good. You will go, no matter what I or anyone else says or does - it’s predestined. So you may as well dress warmly. You don’t want to catch your death of cold.

Where you will have got the idea to do an “old-fashioned Thanksgiving” I don’t know, but between now and then you will become obsessed with the idea of picking out your own turkey and preparing it the way your pilgrim forebears did. So excited will you be, that you won’t notice the strangely intent way the gathered fowl watch you as you wander the grounds of the Daisy Hill Turkey Farm, looking for just the “right” bird.

You’ll spot your quarry, who in typical turkey fashion will wander away from you, seemingly oblivious to his fate. Be mindful of that concept, “Fate”; it cuts both ways.

You’ll stalk your bird, slowly so as not to alarm him, wading as you will through the flock of the un-chosen. You won’t notice that your prey’s meandering takes you around one of the many rough hutches dotting the grounds, out of sight of the kindly proprietor sitting in the faux-farmhouse at the front gate (it’s a good thing you paid in advance; she won’t be seeing you again). Perhaps you will notice a certain “thickening” in the flock of birds immediately around you; they seem to be pressing against your legs, as if urging you in one particular direction. Pay them no mind; after all, they’re just mindless turkeys, right? So dumb they drown in the rain, haven’t we all heard that?

Your intended victim will strut his way up a gangplank and into a hutch, and you will unthinkingly crouch down to follow - you’ve got him cornered now, and all you have to do is haul him out! Visions of giblets in gravy will be dancing in your head.

You’ll be surprised at how many turkeys can fit into one of these small structures. The whirring of their wings as your head and shoulders fill the small opening will be deafening, and the smell . . . nearly asphyxiating. You won’t have time to worry about the smell, though, as you’ll be luxuriating in the sensation of several dozen turkey claws latching onto your clothes, dragging you inward, as the birds outside the hutch push forward, effectively sealing off your escape.

Lacking the dexterity to wield an axe, your captors won’t be able to decapitate you, and will have to make-do with stuffing an apple in your mouth. They will, however, be able to observe all the other nuances of preparing a Thanksgiving repast - you may be interested to know the stuffing will be very high in fiber, consisting as it will mostly of straw. But then, you’ll probably be able to figure that out for yourself.

Later that evening, the kindly old proprietor, reconciling her receipts, will puzzle over your check - she can’t quite recall you ever picking out your bird. That’s about the time that some of the birds back in hutch number 13 will be fighting over the wishbone, while others sit back contently, picking their bills with a piece of straw, or lazily inquiring “is there any more white meat?”

80

three words and a comma: socks, christmas day